


Tutor Me

by Invah



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Collegestuck, Humanstuck, M/M, Making Out, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 21:22:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5106200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Invah/pseuds/Invah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The other thing you notice about him is that he's actually kind of cute.</p><p>You kind of want to punch him in the face for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tutor Me

**Author's Note:**

> Sollux is a tutor in his senior year. Eridan is his freshman student. Stuff happens.

He has blue eyes.

It's the first thing you notice about Eridan Ampora, first week, first session. Not the stupid streak of blond in his hair that contrasts the black. Or the ridiculous, thick rimmed glasses on his nose with lens' far too flat to be for anything except reading.

His stare is intense, makes you freeze in your chair, grip your pen too tight in your hands.

“What?”

You don't miss the emphasized w that he makes, the faintest remnant of a stutter mixed with some kind of accent. Greek? 

“It's 80 degrees out.” You say, pointing to the scarf dangling from his neck. It's a good diversion, but he raises an eyebrow at you, high above his frames, and gives you a skeptical kind of look. You realize quickly that you like it when he looks at you. But you don't. It makes your stomach flutter. It makes you feel sick.

“I like them. Are we here to talk about my fashion sense, or am I goin' to actually learn somethin' today?” He flattens his gaze now, narrowing his eyes at you as he opens the textbook in front of him.

You've never been so uninterested in Calculus before in your life.

 

He's a fast learner.

It's something you notice about him during your second week, eighth session. He remembers all the formula's you taught him, executes them to near perfection like he's some kind of prodigy. Which is stupid, because nobody who's this good at math could possibly need a tutor.

So you tell him.

“Nobody who's this fucking good at math could possibly need a tutor.” You find yourself squinting your eyes at him, suspicious of just about all of him. From the fake glasses to the needless scarf. Of the steel rings on his fingers, one that spins and another that twists.

Which he immediately starts to fiddle with after your statement.

“I prefer one on one lessons. They're easier.” His expression is taut, but you don't think he's lying. It's like a half truth. You can tell he's being honest, but not completely. It shouldn't concern you. But it does.

The other thing you notice about him is that he's actually kind of cute.

You kind of want to punch him in the face for it.

“Sol.” He's taken to calling you by an aggravatingly short nickname. You hate it. You prefer he say your entire name; either all of it, or none of it. He doesn't seem to care, and dismisses your protests each time. Ignores you or waves you off. “Explain this one to me.” He slides his notes over to your side of the desk.

It's a more complex problem than you're used to teaching. So you explain it thoroughly. 

He doesn't really understand it. Moves to your side of the table to get a better look. Pushes a chair in close. Too close. His shoulder's barely touching yours, and you tell your brain to shut the fuck up about wanting to turn your head in and breathe in deep. 

You do it anyway, quietly while he's working. 

Eridan smells like grape. You were expecting something froofy to match his snobby personality.

 

You start losing count of the things you notice about him by your seventh week, twenty-eighth session.

You think it's because you saw him kissing a girl with blue lipstick and big glasses in the hall right before he came in. 

“Is somethin' wrong?” He asks when you stammer on an equation. You draw your mouth into a thin, tight line, crossing the numbers out completely with red pen.

“I have a headache.” It's not entirely a lie. You can feel a migraine coming on. You'd rather be home.

Eridan fidgets with his rings under the table. The clicking sound is kind of soothing. You're getting too used to him. Used to all his sounds and smells. “We can end early today.” He offers, and it's sort of a relief. 

But your ass replies with “Oh, can we?” because it's the first thing that pops into your head and you lack the self control necessary to make rational decisions like a normal fucking human being. It's not like he isn't used to you by now and your coarse personality. But this feels different. Needless to say, you get quite the look from him. Eridan stares at you like you've got two heads, and you might as well. It'd make more sense than the pang of emotions you're feeling in your chest.

They hurt.

You're the first to get up and leave.

 

By your twelfth week, forty-eighth session (you don't know why you're still keeping count) you start to realize you're giving him more of an attitude than you should be. You've been doing it for five weeks, twenty sessions. Every day is worse. It's unprofessional. He's 4 years younger than you, but you're the one acting like you've just got out of high school. You make the mistake of asking if he's “fucking stupid” when he doesn't understand your rambling.

“Excuse me?” He's standing, hands balled into fists at his sides. “What right do you have? Who the fuck do you think you are, speakin' to me like that?” He proceeds to give you an earful that should go down in the history books as one of the sickest burns to have ever scolded your metaphorical skin. “I've been doin' my due diligence this passed month by watchin' you huff an' groan like some kinda 6 feet tall _man child_ an' not sayin' shit about it. I can deal with your fuckin' weird ass mood swings an' all the mumblin' you do in your corner like you think I don't hear every petty little thing that slips outta your crooked mouth.” He slams his books closed, seething at you. “But you do not… You _do not_ call me, Eridan Ampora, _fuckin' stupid._ Do you hear that?”

You don't answer him. He growls and lifts the textbook off the table before throwing it down as loudly as he can.

You try not to stare at the finger he's got jabbed at you. “ _Answer me._ ”

The corner of your mouth twitches, lips curling in a sort of grimacing sneer. “Shove it out your pompous ass.” You wish you could rip your tongue out and shove it in a blender.

Eridan doesn't say anything. That's probably the worst part.

Instead he quietly packs his things and exits the room.

He doesn't come back the next session. Or the one after that. _Or the one after that_.

It's lonely in the office.

–-------

He works at the Starbucks on campus.

 _Of course_ he would work at the fucking Starbucks on campus.

You're suspicious that he might've spat in your drink, but you were watching him the whole time, and you didn't miss the way he misspelled your name on the cup either. “Sucklux Dicktor”. Nice. Really classy.

You do him the favor of sitting in the back of the café at a table, alone, while you grade papers from other students you've been tutoring. 

But all you can think about is the cute underclassmen working behind the register, and the streak of purple he dyed into the blonde tuft of hair above his fringe. You think about his fingers and the funny way he holds his pen and pushes up his glasses, the rings he fiddles with using his thumb and pinky on each of his hands. His blue, almond shaped eyes and the way his dark lashes sometimes rub against his lens' and fall onto his papers.

You think about his crummy jokes involving politics and history, all of the weird fish puns he tells you that his friend uses that he absolutely hates to no end. The way his nose scrunches when you say something that gets on his nerves, and the specs of freckles that are practically hidden under his frames.

You think about how badly you messed up and how stupid this crush is.

It's been an hour and you've done nothing but drool into your fucking coffee and fix two problems on the ditto in front of you. 

 

You return the next day. 

Same time. Same order. 

Eridan writes “Asslord” on your cup, calls you to the front by the name “Inconsiderate Douchebag”.

You give him that much. You kind of deserve it? So you silently take your coffee and retreat to the back of the café again to not grade work and think about your stupid emotions.

Two hours into your pity fest, somebody knocks into your chair. You scoot a bit closer to the table, getting out of their way. But they knock into you again. And again. _And again_.

“Do you have a fucking problem?” You turn to face them, and Eridan glares down at you, broom in hand.

“What the fuck are you doin' here?” He hisses, showing you his teeth in a snarl. Perfect, straight, white teeth. Those canines look like they've been sharpened. It can't be natural.

“What the hell does it look like? I bought myself a cup of Joe and sat down to grade some assholes work.”

“You hate coffee.” It's a statement - a bold one at that. He says it like he personally knows you, and it sort of pisses you off. Sort of makes you want to squirm in your seat. “You're really bad at this, aren't you?”

You raise an eyebrow at him, lifting your cup to your lips. He heaves a sigh and twists the broom stick in his hand.

“At apologizin'.”

He makes a face when you sputter and nearly choke on your drink. “Wh-What?!” You finish clearing your throat, quickly standing up to fold your books together and shove them into your bag. “I didn't come here to apologize to you. In fact, I'm going to leave now. Fuck you.” Before he can open his mouth and speak, you turn and point at him. Your cheeks feel hot, suddenly. “No. I said _fuck you_. Don't even say anything.”

And he doesn't. He keeps his eyes on you, and you know your face is red. You can feel it.

It's fucking embarrassing.

You're out of the café in seconds.

 

You don't go back the next day.

Instead you hole up in your office, burying your nose into a book. Some junk about a kid and his magic dog. You're honestly not that super into it. You're not a book person, either. But you need some kind of distraction. Anything to take your mind off of the absolute disaster that has been the passed few weeks (eight weeks exactly, three since your last tutoring session).

A knock on your door brings you out of your thoughts. “It's unlocked.” You call out, closing the storybook and sticking it into a drawer under your desk.

The door opens and shuts. When you look up, Eridan stands on the other end of the table, fingers pulling at the ends of his scarf.

Your voice catches in your throat, but he holds a hand up anyway hinting for you to remain silent. 

And then he reaches into his bag, pulls out a spiral notebook and slides it across your desk. “You forgot this.”

You could literally just die. 

You can picture it; God himself splitting the roof above you and reaching in before smiting you in all his Godly bullshit wonders. Or maybe this was Hell. Yes, it was definitely Hell. Satan was going to grab you by the ankles and drag you down into the underworld to relive this moment for all eternity, denying you the sweet embrace of death.

“Thanks.” You reach for it, but he stops short, yanking it away.

“Do you like me?”

You feel like a deer caught in headlights. You _look_ like a deer caught in headlights. He raises his brow, and you know he's taking your silence as a yes. You don't want him to. But you do. _But you don't._ “You have a girlfriend.” Is the thing that decides to come out of your mouth.

“Pardon?” He snorts and you kind of want to shove your foot down your throat. “Is _that_ what this is about?” Eridan frowns at you, pinches the bridge of his nose and groans.

“I'm sorry.” It's… genuine. You think. It only took about fifty-six days for you to say it. You think you should probably make up for lost time. “I'm sorry.” You say it again. Third times the charm. Four for good luck.

“Sol.” He doesn't let you get a fifth out. You glance up at him, self consciously reaching for the sunglasses on your desk. When you find them you slip them over your face, hiding your eyes away. It always made you feel better as a kid; too many jerks who called you freaky mutant eye boy. He scowls at your actions. “Go with me to the movies.”

“No.” You're speaking before you let your thoughts catch up with you.

“Why not?”

You don't really know why. You like him, but you can't stand him. He has a girlfriend(?), but he's asking you out. He's younger than you, but you're letting him boss you around. It's hard for you to process all of the things going through your head, and you feel like you're going to short circuit. If humans can even _do_ that. You want to distance yourself from this situation as much as possible. Shut down. Take a nap. Naps sounded pretty good right now, actually. There are a lot of voices screaming at you currently. You can barely find your own among the mess of them. “Because I can't.”

“Bullshit.” Eridan is fast to reply, and circles around to your side of the desk. You realize quickly that you may be, in fact, panicking. Panic is definitely a thing that you are feeling. Instinctively, you stand up, because you're taller than him and it makes you feel slightly better about yourself. Makes you feel like you're not shrinking under his eyes. “I like you. _A lot._ An' you were a colossal fuckin' dickbag to me.” He grumbles, and you can tell he's gnawing the inside of his cheek. “You didn't come to my workplace the second time out of coincidence, you came because you wanted to see me again. I'm not an idiot, Sol.” And then he narrows his eyes, stepping closer to you so he can jab a finger into your chest. “I ain't _stupid_. I notice things.” He sucks in a breath, gripping the front of your shirt. “I know you're always watchin' me with your mismatched eyes that you try an' hide under ridiculous lookin' sunglasses. You put two packs of sugar in your coffee. You like The Beatles. Your favorite color is purple.” He sticks his nose into the air, blowing a strand of hair out of his face. _Purple._

“So what, you want a gold star for remembering all these useless facts about me? Congratulations, you're good at math _and_ random trivia.” You wish you weren't a sarcastic jackass sometimes. Why couldn't you just take anything seriously? 

“I'll take that as a compliment. But no. I want a kiss an' a date.”

You come full stop, and your brain finally catches up. It's very quiet in your mind. Too quiet. 

The sound of Eridan's bag dropping onto the floor breaks the silence.

And then his hands are on your face next, and _Jesus Christ_ they're cold. Cold cold _fucking cold_. You hiss and flinch away but he just moves them further back, brushing passed your ears until his fingers lace themselves around the back of your head. And then he's pulling you down, closer to his face. 

_Oh._

He's _gorgeous_ from this distance. 

You lick your lips before swallowing, your throat suddenly feeling very dry. 

When he kisses you it's like time stops. His lips are soft against yours, pressing earnestly into each movement he makes. You take a second to register that you are indeed kissing Eridan Ampora before finally pressing back, your hands tentatively hovering over his waist. Are you allowed to place them there? You start with your fingers first; when he doesn't reject the action you let your palms to rest over his hips. And then you pull him just a little bit closer, and he tilts his head just a smidgen to the left.

It's chaste. Soft and warm and _nice_. Eridan's fingers untwist, threading themselves through your hair and massaging the back of your neck. You discover that you _really_ like it when he's touching you. It sends a shiver down your spine and your heart beats faster. You find your way to the small of his back, thumbs dipping just underneath the hem of his shirt to caress his skin. Smooth. Chilly. You think you understand why he wears the scarf now.

You have just enough self control to not pull him flush against your body when he takes your lower lip between his teeth and sucks. Your legs give a small wobble as a gasp escapes you, and you swear you can feel him smiling about it. He releases it with a wet sound before his tongue slides over the puckered skin and he pushes you back. When you knock into the chair behind you he gives a shove with all of his weight, forcing you to take a seat. “Eridan-” He climbs over you, knee resting between your legs as he straddles your thigh. _Holy shit_.

He connects your lips again, and when he presses his tongue against your gums you open your mouth for him to slip inside. You can easily say, without a doubt, that Eridan Ampora is an amazing kisser. You moan into him when he twirls his tongue around your own, pushing further in and grabbing fistfuls of your hair with one hand while the other snakes its way under your shirt. And then that knee… _that knee_.

You helplessly grab at him, fingers wrapped around the waist of his jeans and belt loops. The denim is probably cutting off circulation somewhere in your palms, but you don't care.

He grinds his thigh into your crotch and you just about lose it. You're on fire. Your stomach flips as you roll your hips against his thigh. Eridan has you writhing in your chair, hips raising in response to every one of his movements. He's smiling again, and you let his hand trail lower down your body until its palm sits on your fly. Just lays there, not pressing, not fiddling with the button or the zipper.

You shamelessly let out a whine, but Eridan kisses it down. Kisses down your gasps and your moans, letting out a groan of his own when you try to gain some friction from his ghosting touch.

His hand leaves the bulge in your pants to move back up to your face, cupping the sides of it in his palm with the other. He stops grinding. Slowly, he lets his tongue slide out from your mouth, and licks the saliva off of your lips; letting your mouths linger over each other and your breath mix in hot air between them.

You're panting more than you should be, but in your defense you're trying to fade back into reality here.

“That's one kiss,” He says, beginning to move away from you. He has to pry your hands off of his pants, chuckling while he does it. You're a bit lost in a fog, feeling rather light headed. You don't know what to say to this, but you know one thing; you're disappointed, because you're hard as fuck and Eridan isn't in your lap anymore. When Eridan finally stands up straight, he adjusts his clothes before pulling a sticky note out from your desk drawers with a pen. He scribbles something onto it, then takes the note and places the adhesive side of it to your mouth with a finger.

One finger. One delicate, soft finger, that hovers over the paper in a manner that matches the suggestive look in his eyes.

“An' you also owe me one date.”

You blink stupidly at him. He simply tightens the scarf around his neck before grabbing his bag and strutting to the door. He gives you one final look before he leaves the room with a flourish.

You sit there, starstruck, for an embarrassingly long amount of time. Your lips are dry by the time you dare to move again, removing the note off of them and turning it around.

A phone number, neatly written in Eridan's infuriatingly perfect calligraphy. Like he's got somebody he's trying to _impress._

… He did.

 

When you finally text him it's to ask him if he'd rather get Thai or Greek.


End file.
